


Irregular

by tartanfics



Series: Identification [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Crime Scenes, M/M, Mycroft is a creeper, Robot Feels, Robot Sherlock, Robots, Sex Bots, Three Laws of Robotics, baker street irregulars - Freeform, having a robot for a flatmate sometimes gets awkward, not actually an Asimov crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:30:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartanfics/pseuds/tartanfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 2081. John Watson, former army roboticist, is accustomed to thinking of London's robotics world as stale and restrictive, clean and precisely monitored. He never dreamt there was a far less regulated world beneath the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irregular

**Author's Note:**

> This is #3 in the series-of-fics that forms the sequel to [This Machine Called Man](http://archiveofourown.org/works/524552/chapters/928252). You may want to read the fics previous to this first, but you can probably skip This Machine Called Man if you want to. New fics in the series should go up weekly on Friday or Saturday; to get notifications of the updates you should [subscribe to the series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/26877), and not to the individual fics.

"I don't know why you thought this was worth my time," Sherlock says, rising from his crouch over the body and glaring at Lestrade. "I grant you the blood spatter is unusual, but if your forensics team were competent they would have seen that it was perfectly consistent with the victim stabbing himself prior to the murderer taking the knife and finishing the job."

Fortunately, Anderson is not in the room for this, John thinks. "It's a murder, you're not supposed to question whether solving it is worth your time," Donovan says. 

The kitchen of dead Joe Willis is so blood-spattered that everyone is forced to the edges and corners of the room. Sherlock managed to pick his way closer to the body without disturbing the blood on the floor, but Donovan is standing in the doorway and Lestrade is shoved into the corner, standing over the bin. John is leaning in the window that opens between the kitchen and the living room, feeling a bit like a puppet in a morbid puppet show.

"There's no point in you lot calling me in for cases you should be able to solve yourselves," Sherlock gripes, stripping off his gloves. "I solve the complicated ones."

Sherlock's right, John thinks. He won't admit it, because he doesn't want to encourage Sherlock's tendency to minimise murders, but he does think the point is that Sherlock can solve the cases humans can't. He's got the brain capacity, the effortless number-crunching, data-sorting, observational skills humans just don't have. Using robots for jobs humans could do just as well is pointless, in John's view.

"Since you're here," Lestrade says placidly. "Mind telling us about it?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He's in fine disparaging form today. Probably disappointed the case hasn't turned out to be more interesting. John tamps down that thought. He’s trying to stop attributing emotions to Sherlock that Sherlock doesn't have.

"There was an argument. The victim picked up the knife and threatened to harm himself--any violence he would have committed would be self-directed; if you get his medical records they should confirm this. But the wound wouldn't have killed him. The murderer took the knife away from him, but something led the murderer to stab him again and kill him. Probably something he said provoked anger. So you're looking for someone who knew the victim, someone close. Brother, husband, close friend, business partner. I'm sure you can manage the rest, it's all tedious police work."

"Yeah, thanks for that," Lestrade says, leaving it up to question whether he's thanking Sherlock for the information or the insult. 

"That's how it works," Donovan mutters. Sherlock eyes her warily, and she repeats louder, "That's how it works. Tracking down the people he knew, it's methodical. It's not _tedious_."

Sherlock shrugs. "Speak for yourself. I'll be going now." He picks his way back over the body and across the kitchen floor. Donovan stares him down from her position in the doorway, and refuses to move until he's looming over her making a face as though he doesn't like the taste of something. Sherlock probably has that face categorised somehow, John thinks. 

Sherlock circles around to where John is pulling his head out of the kitchen window. "Come along, John."

John follows Sherlock out of the flat and down the rickety, steep stairs. "I need a case," Sherlock says, as he shoves open the front door and bursts out onto the street. John has to catch the heavy door in his wake.

"That won't tide you over for today?"

"No, it makes it worse, having the chance of one and it turning out to be boring." Sherlock starts walking, his coat billowing out dramatically behind him.

So he is disappointed. In some sense. 

John follows him as far as the corner, and then Sherlock takes a decisive left turn and John asks, "Are we going anywhere special?"

"Might as well make leaving the flat worthwhile. We should have a rating system."

"What?" They pass a chippy and a Thai restaurant, and John sniffs longingly. Sherlock is terrible about stopping for John to eat at regular mealtimes. 

"A rating system for cases. Priorities one to ten, and if it's lower than a seven I'll send you to the crime scene so I don't have to clutter up my files with unnecessary boring cases."

"What good am I going to be at a crime scene?" John asks. They pass a tiny kebab place, which looks unsanitary but makes John hungry anyway.

"True, the evidence won't mean anything to you, but I can always rely on you to send me the relevant data. It doesn't take much, for the simple cases."

John feels uncomfortably pleased about this back-handed compliment. He's busy trying not to be so pleased when Sherlock makes a sharp turn into the entrance of Holborn Tube station. 

John hadn’t realised they were so nearby. He stops abruptly just outside. "What are we doing?" John asks, hands clenching. 

Sherlock stops and turns back, frowning. He examines John’s face, and John lets him do it, even though it should be obvious why John doesn’t want to be in the Tube station where he nearly got blown up. “Nothing related to Moriarty,” Sherlock says once he’s figured it out. His voice is low, and John feels like they’re alone even in the middle of the regular traffic of people entering and exiting the station.

John takes a deep breath and says, “Fine.” 

He follows Sherlock into the station and watches as Sherlock swipes his com over the reader on the turnstile and pushes his way through. Then John realises he isn’t still following and Sherlock isn't going to wait for him, and hurries to get out his own com and follow. The station isn't very busy at this hour, and John is able to catch up at the escalator. He steps on just before someone else pushes between him and Sherlock. "Are we actually riding the Tube?" John asks. He’s never seen Sherlock ride the Tube, though Sherlock claims to have done so.

But Sherlock simply glances over his shoulder and smirks up at John, before stepping left and clattering downwards. His long legs combined with the movement of the escalator put him at the bottom much faster than seems possible. 

They follow the signs for the Piccadilly line, emerging onto the platform for northbound trains. Platform 4. It’s the same one they were on when Moriarty strapped a bomb to John’s chest, but at least it looks different now. It’s not empty of people, there’s no weight on John’s chest, Sherlock isn’t staring at him like he’s done the impossible. It's a bit more crowded down here than it was up in the ticket hall. Sherlock weaves his way through travelers, pushing along to the middle of the platform. 

There's a door here. It's designed to more or less blend in with the surrounding wall, though it's not trying very hard. 

None of the commuters are paying attention when Sherlock taps his com a second time, against a small discreet panel next to the door. It clicks open. 

"Right, then I take it we're not actually taking the Tube," John says.

"Obviously."

They step through onto another platform. It's like stepping into an alternate universe, or back in time. The door snicks shut behind them. 

The platform is lit by dim emergency lights spaced unevenly along the ceiling. The walls have the distinctive old tile pattern that John remembers with the sudden surprise of remembering something you've forgotten you'd forgotten. They replaced the tiles in most Tube stations about fifteen years ago. John's not sure he's ever seen a train platform so dim and empty, even the one on the other side of the door that night in March. It’s quiet. There are ancient advertisements still on the wall across the tracks. 

"Unused platform," Sherlock says, voice low. "Retired in 1994 and since forgotten."

"What are we doing here?"

"Checking in. Homeless network--really is indispensable."

"Homeless network?"

"My eyes and ears in the Underground."

"You need eyes and ears in the Underground?" They're still standing just inside the door, paused here on the edge of this alternate universe Tube station. It makes John a little uncomfortable.

"Oh, of course. They don't tell you lot about the irregulars."

"The what?" John feels like he's asking stupid questions, but there's not much else he can do. He can't decide whether to be affronted by "you lot."

"I'll explain later. Come on." Sherlock walks slowly down the platform, but his footsteps are still loud. John can't help listening to how different his own footsteps sound.

When they come to the end of the platform Sherlock jumps down onto the tracks. John makes an incoherent startled noise, shocked by the breaking of the invisible barrier that prevents people in normal Tube stations from jumping off the platform. “Sherlock! That’s… isn’t it live?”

"Perfectly safe as long as we avoid touching the rails," Sherlock says, picking his way over the tracks to the other side. He glances back at John, not really looking at him, and John peers over the edge of the platform. It's only about a meter down, but John's knees aren't going to like this. And he’d rather avoid being electrocuted. Sherlock is disappearing down the tunnel.

No choice. John jumps.

Regaining his balance and shaking his legs out, John looks past Sherlock down the tunnel. There are a couple of yellowish lights away down the line, and something silhouetted on the side of the tunnel catches John's eye.

It's a person, sitting on the side of the tunnel, leaning back against the wall.

"Sherlock," John hisses. 

Sherlock stretches an arm back towards John, hushing him. John trusts Sherlock's instincts--no, not instincts, objective assessment of a situation--but his senses are still on alert. John watches Sherlock's hand reach back into his pocket and palm some object John can't make out in the dim light. He moves further down the tunnel, toward the indistinct figure sitting against the edge.

John catches up with Sherlock and turns to look at the person. He has to blink and squint in the darkness before he realises what he's looking at. 

A true-humanoid android, with plasticky skin and large round blue eyes. Maybe a sex bot or one of the other more frivolous show droids. Not that now--the robot is wearing torn jeans and a blue hoodie. The darkness softens the artificiality of the skin, but it's unmistakably a droid. In an abandoned Tube line. Just sitting there. One of Sherlock's homeless network.

A homeless droid. The foundation of John's world seems to shudder.

Sherlock reaches out to hand the thing from his pocket to the droid, but John doesn't get much more of a glimpse of what it is. Something cylindrical, shiny.

"All right?" Sherlock asks it.

He gets a nod, no words. Maybe it avoids speaking so it can pretend to be human longer? It looks like it's hiding, trying to blend in. The rectangular, androgynous face angles up towards Sherlock, turns towards John. "No news?" Sherlock asks.

Its one hand is still clutching the thing Sherlock gave it, but the other shifts. The sleeve of the hoodie falls back and reveals metal, the delicate steel bones of the robot's hand. It reaches into its pocket. There's a jagged cut of its skin around the wrist; the metal emerges looking naked and dusty--which has to be affecting the operation of the hand. True-humanoid droids aren't designed to be without skin. It's lost the skin somehow, had it torn away--maybe that's why it's here in the Underground. No functioning droid would be allowed to disappear like that.

John's mind races, skirting the possibilities and tripping over his shock, as he watches the droid remove a slip of paper from its pocket and offer it to Sherlock. Sherlock takes the paper, tucks it into his own pocket, and nods decisively. "Thank you."

And then he's off again, brushing back past John towards the platform. John lingers, looking at the droid, wanting to do... something. His job. But there's nothing he can do.

"John," Sherlock calls. His voice echoes in the tunnel. So John follows, and lets Sherlock hoist him up onto the platform.

They double back along the platform, through the door, and across to the Central line to take the Tube back to Baker Street.

John waits until they're safely back in the living room of 221B before he asks. Sherlock looked at the paper the droid gave him on the Bakerloo line, but he didn't react to it.

Sherlock throws himself down on the sofa, still wearing his coat. He looks at the ceiling. 

John doesn't feel like sitting down just yet. He hovers on the far side of the coffee table, looking down at Sherlock, half pacing. "You have a droid in your homeless network," John states, and immediately has to repress a reflexive wince at Sherlock's imminent scorn over stating the obvious.

"My homeless network is _all_ droids," Sherlock says.

"So there are more."

"Yes, John, obviously. This is what they don't tell you in robotics school. The irregulars, they're generally called." Sherlock tucks the tails of his coat in around his legs and turns his head to look at John. "She used to be a sex bot. She was considered out of date, began to have malfunctions. Was retired for scrap, stolen by an underground roboticist looking to sell her off for illegal private use. She wouldn't sell, and now she is part of my homeless network."

"She?" John asks.

"I have a gender," Sherlock says.

Sherlock's not the same, though. "What did you give her?" John asks.

"Power cell. I pay my network for their services."

"Do they all live in disused Tube lines?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, impatient with John's anxious questioning. "For the most part. Derelict buildings. The Camden Catacombs. All the sorts of places human homeless people live, though the robots tend to have more resources for getting into places like the Tube. They don't need food, they're resistant to cold and illness. It's altogether much nicer to be homeless as a droid than as a human."

Does he speak from experience? John really knows nothing about Sherlock's past, beyond the fact that he quit working for Mycroft at some point and left to choose his own jobs.

"How many are there?" John asks instead.

"Lots," Sherlock says, as if he can't be bothered with precision. 

"Hundreds? Thousands?" John sits on the end of the coffee table, elbows on his knees. "That's a lot of robots unaccounted for. Why hasn't--"

"Why hasn't the government intervened and destroyed them all?" Sherlock interrupts.

John twists to look over his shoulder at Sherlock, surprised by a bitter note in Sherlock's voice. It sounds bitter to John, anyway. 

Sherlock raises himself up on his elbows and says, "They're out of sight. The government only cares about robotics law where people can see it being enforced."

John stares at Sherlock, rearranging what he knows about the London robotics world. He’s accustomed to thinking of it as stale and restrictive, clean and precisely monitored. But if there are innumerable robots living on the streets, that’s something altogether different. It’s a completely different robotics world from the one John knows, but it’s not unfamiliar. It’s Sherlock’s world, one he fits into naturally, and one which John sees for the first time in its entirety.

Who are these robots, living in the darkness? Are any of them like Sherlock?

“Stop staring, John,” Sherlock snaps, lying back down and putting his hands together in front of his mouth. “I have to process the information she gave me.”

Of course, the homeless droid’s information leads to a case Sherlock deems worth his time, and John doesn’t get any sleep for the next twenty-four hours. It’s impossible to think about Sherlock’s homeless network when John’s running on adrenaline and caffeine, and when they catch their criminal and John takes a knife to the arm, it’s almost a relief.

-

Sherlock is aware of Mycroft before he sits down. The stiff vinyl hospital chair makes a noise of expelled air beneath his weight, which Mycroft undoubtedly finds unpleasant. He's so predictable. Not like John is predictable--Mycroft is both boring and inconvenient. Dangerous, too, of course.

Sherlock calculates the amount of time he's been sitting here again, and refuses to question Mycroft's presence. 

"I was given to understand you'd hired a maintenance technician," Mycroft says in that slow methodical way he has. "Not a body guard."

"Piss off, Mycroft."

"Is there a reason you're in this waiting room? John has some crucial information pertaining to the case, perhaps?" 

Sherlock turns his head just far enough to see Mycroft's hands re-adjusting his grip on his umbrella. Mycroft must have a reason for being here. He wants something. But despite being predictable in his actions Mycroft's intentions are often hard to read. 

“I’m sure you already know the precise nature of John’s injuries. I am in this waiting room for the purpose of waiting, as you would know if you weren’t so fond of reading too much into everything.”

The very idea of having a room dedicated solely to waiting is absurd. There’s nothing here but undignified chairs and side tables with crooked legs. The room is painted a shade of pale green which Sherlock’s colour analysis suggests is supposed to be calming, but Sherlock has never observed colours to have such a marked effect. A sheet of badly-laminated paper posted on the opposite wall informs those waiting that the hospital has a library of magazines, television programmes, and newspapers available for download.

“I do,” Mycroft says, acknowledging this point with a forward tilt of his head. “Which is how I know that John is in hospital for twelve stitches in his upper arm and access to prescription painkillers--hardly life-threatening. You’ve no reason to wait.”

Sherlock knows this already; he got a perfectly good look at John’s injury and was able to predict the necessary treatment with, according to Mycroft’s information, 100% accuracy. However, Sherlock is unable to agree with Mycroft’s assessment that this leaves him no reason to wait for John. He will gain nothing by going home now, and John will be pleased if he waits. Better to extend the good mood John gets from helping Sherlock solve cases, especially if the injury has subdued it. 

“You can’t be here merely to bother me about my presence in this waiting room,” Sherlock says. There’s no real point with Mycroft, but Sherlock puts a tone of irritation and impatience in his voice. His conversational subroutines are still functioning, anyway. He doesn’t turn them off just because his conversational partner knows he’s a robot.

"Six months ago you would never have tolerated a waiting room. When Detective Inspector Lestrade had internal bleeding last year you went to Dulwich to speak to your homeless friends." Mycroft turns in his seat, the chair breathing under him. "You do recognise that this is endemic of a larger problem."

"And now that you've demonstrated the level of detail your surveillance extends to--" Sherlock snaps, standing up and turning to look down at Mycroft. Mycroft utterly fails to be intimidated by the height disparity; he doesn't even move. 

"If you refuse to recognise the problem," Mycroft interrupts, "I will be forced to take steps myself."

"It is none of your business what I do," Sherlock says, restraining the default option of expressing anger. 

"Oh, but it is," Mycroft says. He stands, crowding Sherlock back and hooking his umbrella over his arm. "You have no legal autonomy. I am quite within my rights to do what I like with you. I have not done so, but should you continue to develop in ways that decrease your efficiency I may be obliged to fix it." He steps out from between Sherlock and the chair, moving towards the door at a false leisurely pace. "Good day."

**Author's Note:**

> Just for the record, I wrote the disused-tube-tunnel thing before canon did it, and I was annoyed they stole my thing.


End file.
